This didn't make the cut...

So, I mentioned a few months ago that I would include some text from our as-yet unpublished novel. This is the original chapter 1, which didn't make the cut after a few rounds of Beta reader feedback. Parts of this are critical to the storyline, so they have been incorporated into the manuscript at various locations. I hope you enjoy it! (p.s. I have secured the copyright)

9:02 a.m. Thursday, May 12, 2015 – Baltimore, Maryland

Grant looked at the letter, the only piece of mail in his school P.O. Box. It was your average letter, a bit roughed up from its trip through the U.S. mail’s mechanical sorters, but otherwise it was an average envelope. Still, everything about it was strange. He noticed the postmark dated last Friday from Des Moines, Iowa, and addressed formally to Mr. Grant David Connor III. Grant didn’t think he knew anyone from Iowa, and nobody called him by his full name. In fact, Grant dropped the 3rd from his name in his early teens, right after his mom and dad’s car accident.

He almost threw the letter in the trash, figuring it was some sort of junk mail, but today was the last day of finals for the college sophomore and he was already running late for Intro to Psychology. Standing in the post office, which was only two blocks from the Hilda Katz Blaustein Research Center building where his final would be held, Grant knew he didn’t have far to go. Still, he didn’t recall a recycling bin en route his final. He checked the clock on hos phone. 9:03. He was already three minutes late. Grant decided to stuff the “junk mail” in his jacket pocket with a bunch of other trash he’d accumulated over the past semester and head to class. He needed to empty that junk out anyways before the summer.

As he walked, Grant messed with the various bits of paper and junk in his pockets and marveled at the day. The spring had been unseasonably mild for the central Atlantic area and today was no different. It was a cool morning in Baltimore. Grant noticed the dew still on the ground. The tall buildings at the university forced the sun higher in the sky before it could burn off the morning dew. He trekked down Greene Street, past Fayette Square housing complex and between the University of Maryland’s Biomedical Research Facility and the Maryland Bar Center. In a fleeting thought he considered tossing a bundle of garbage from his pocket into the bin outside the research facility and then running off. If I look suspicious enough it might cause someone to react and break up the monotony – or even postpone the final?

While he thought more about his plot to delay the inevitable, Grant rummaged through the junk in his pocket, settling on his recent grade report which was the whole reason for his mood anyway. His mood swung even darker when he thought that after two years as an undergraduate in the University of Maryland’s “General Studies” program, Grant remained an average student with average grades and average plans. He pulled the wrinkled grade report from his pocket and looked at it again as he walked. Beside the word “Major” written in bold black lettering was the word “Undecided.” Yeah, undecided described Grant to a tee, he thought. That and the two “B’s,” two “C’s,” and a “–“ well, Grant didn’t want to think any more about the “-“ until after he failed his last final. And he pretty much expected to fail his Psychology final. Grant saw himself more as a student of life than one of lectures – a cross between James Dean and Robert Pattinson. Grant was a throwback rebel, misunderstood, intelligent but without direction, or so his high school counselor had told him. So, that’s how Grant saw himself. He attended just enough classes not to be dropped by the professor, but he hadn’t taken a single note, nor had he passed a single test. As for the final, well Grant figured it was just a formality at this point.

Despite his glum outlook, Grant David Connor III was no different than most of the students at the U of M, or in America for that matter. His generation had lived through the IBM millennial crash, the end of America’s manned space program, the election and re-election of America’s first black president and the ebb and flow of American sentiment surrounding America’s longest land war in history. Grant considered that his generation started using computers before they started school. He had never known life without a cell phone, and he had always won a trophy, even for coming in last. They were well kept, knowledgeable of their rights and none too shy to demand them as long as there wasn’t much effort involved. But as Grant’s generation reached maturity, the U.S. economy started to falter, and Grant, like many other students at the U of M, worked his way through college and collected student loan debt for whatever he couldn’t pay through a series of menial jobs. His family had money, but Grant didn’t have access to it, nor did he care to lug around the baggage that came with it. This year mirrored the last, except that Intro to Psych was his last final and he hadn’t yet secured a job for the summer. Undecided. Without Direction. Hmmph.

As he stood at the base of the steps leading into Blaustein, job hunting would have to wait. Intro to Psychology beckoned. As Grant walked up the steps toward lecture hall “3C” he nodded to a few fellow students, holdovers from finals week wearing frowns and tear-streaked mascara. Most other students’ finals were complete and the bulk of students who remained were either coming from or headed to extra credit sessions with various professors – or en route Professor McGowan’s psychology final. Professor McGowan always held the final exam for Intro to Psychology as the last final of the academic year. It was her way of reminding students that psychology was a game to be played only by those intelligent enough to win it. Of course, the fact that Prof. McGowan was a spinster in her late 70s without any hint of a social life also played into the final’s timing.

Grant climbed the stairs and made the slow walk of shame toward the lecture hall, scuffing his feet as he walked like a toddler whose mom refused to buy him a toy. He could easily identify his seat from the doorway and he nearly laughed out loud. It looked like it belonged to Pigpen from Family Circus with all the bits and trash accumulated over the semester. His seat was vacant so often it appeared to have become a repository for nearby students’ unwanted notes, scraps of paper, bubble gum wrappers, and coffee cups. For Grant, it was just another statement that punctuated his lack of direction. He didn’t even object as he brushed aside the trash and stray bits onto the floor and sighed, thinking to himself, One last final. How painful can it be? As he looked around the room he recognized angst and concern on the faces of his fellow students. Grant decided he’s asked the wrong question, or maybe asked it too soon.

As Grant reached his seat, he watched Professor McGowan move from row to row with a stack of papers, stopping at each student’s desk to drop a neatly, stapled packet selected from the top. For most, she offered a smile and a nod of encouragement, others a friendly touch on the shoulder to calm fraying nerves. The dour expression on many of his classmates’ faces suggested they were about as prepared as he was, and far from reassured. He looked on quietly as McGowan continued her march up one aisle and down the next, seemingly unaware of the nervous silence blanketing the room.

He watched the lecture hall door swing open admitting a few more stragglers into the room. At least I’m not the last, he thought. Their tardiness lessened his own small shame. “For those arriving late, once you’ve received your final you may begin,” McGowan intoned, her voice suddenly loud in his ear. Grant looked up to see the reassuring smile she had worn just moments ago gone from her face as she held out a single piece of paper retrieved from the bottom of the stack.

Grant noticed as the professor stiffened her back, standing straighter and crossing her arms under the pile of tests, “Dr. Connor, I presume?” He heard muted chuckles coming from the other students. Grant kind of expected it.

“Good morning, Granny M,” was all Grant had to offer. He harkened back to his last run-in with the professor over why a student would pay so much money to attend the University of Maryland yet fail to participate in the classes. She surmised Grant was a rich kid with an entitlement complex and suggested he refer to her as “Granny M” rather than “Professor.” In her reasoning maybe then he would feel compelled to attend class out of a sense of family obligation rather than a fiduciary one. Professor McGowan surmised wrong, again.

“Well, Dr. Connor, at least you remember something from our discussion.” More snickers. Emboldened by the Professor, several students outright laughed. “I truly hope you are walking away from my class with more than a disdain for psychology or the curators thereof. Life is a hard mistress, Dr. Connor. Don’t expect it to give you a ‘pass’ on its lessons.”

And there it is. Prof. McGowan’s “advice.” Unfortunately, it didn’t come with a soft smile or touch, but rather with the same hard scowl and stiff neck Grant had gotten used to. Grant broke eye contact to look at his one-page exam. There was only one, hand-written sentence at the top – another bad sign in his book. Grant slumped in his chair and mumbled, “Ugh, Psychologists.”

“Mr. Connor, if god were teaching Introduction to Psychology, would you treat him as you have me?”

Grant scribbled a few words on his paper before signing his name and walking out. Professor McGowan hadn’t even finished distributing exams as he left. He stopped in the hallway and turned to watch Professor McGowan crack a smile as she turned over his essay and read his response.

“Granny M, God is spelled with a capital ‘G’ and frankly, He wouldn’t have to ask.”

Grant didn’t know it, but that was the first time McGowan smiled all semester.

11:15 a.m. Friday, May 13, 2015 – Baltimore, Maryland

“There’s nothing on this time of day.” Grant complained out loud as he flipped through the cable channels in his dorm’s empty common room. His suite mates left earlier in the week, taking their belongings with them. Grant still had the basics for a college student’s survival – a dirty microwave, refrigerator full of discount beer and Hot Pockets, and a large flat screen TV with digital service. The absence of sound from outside told Grant that, like his dorm suite, campus was absolutely deserted. But on the first official day of summer for the college student Grant didn’t have any plans, as usual. Finals were over, but the self-proclaimed rebel still didn’t have any place to stay for the summer, even though university guidelines required him to vacate the dorms before Monday. With no family to visit, no job on the horizon, and no plans to speak of, television seemed his best option at the time. He flipped through the channels with one hand and fiddled with his grade report with the other when he realized he still hadn’t opened the letter from Iowa.

“Let’s see what you want to sell me today, Iowa.” He pulled the letter from his jacket pocket and inspected the outside. It looked like it had traveled the world over to get from Des Moines to Baltimore with its folded corners, wrinkled face and little black “skid marks” from the sorting machine. Grant opened the envelope with the care of a professional wrestler, nearly tearing it in half in the process. Inside he found a single sheet of yellow legal paper. It wasn’t the kind he used in school for notes; rather, it was the long, perforated-at-the-top yellow paper his professors often used. At first glance, it looked like a hand-written letter, which was odd for junk mail.

Grant unfolded the letter to find a note, addressed to him, written in the smooth cursive of a practiced hand.

Grant,

I don’t know how you will receive this letter, heading into your junior year of college. All I can hope is that you recognize this opportunity for what it really is – the start of something.

You don’t know me, but I knew your father long before the accident. We were inseparable while growing up. Your dad was the handsome one who drove all the pretty girls crazy while I spent most of my time in the background. You could say he was Tony Stark before Iron Man and I was more like the original Pepper Potts. Anyway, when you were born, your dad and I made a pact that I intend to keep.

Grant, I have an offer for you, but it’s going to require you to take a leap of faith. If you are anything like your father was at your age, and I expect you are, then you are sitting in your apartment at college wondering what to do with your summer. You probably haven’t made any plans and, again like your father, you probably don’t have a job lined up yet.

Grant, I’m going to make you an offer, one I hope you will accept. Like I said, it will require a leap of faith on your part, but I can promise you, if you take that leap, you’re in for the ride of your life. Think of it as a nation-wide scavenger hunt. I have invited a second gentleman, a soldier and veteran of some pretty ugly battles, to accompany you on your journey. This soldier’s name is Trillion and he will meet you in Wheeling, WV in the parking lot across from the Wheeling Civic Center. There, the two of you will find a car I have readied for your trip.

When you get to the bus station in Wheeling, ask the clerk for the contents of locker G7. You may have to show your ID, but the locker is reserved in your name. In that locker you will find the door key to your car and instructions on the next leg of your journey. Trillion will have the keys to the ignition. Grant, I’m asking you to trust Trillion. He’s a good man and despite the generational gap, the two of you have more in common than you could know.

Oh, one more thing, this journey is contingent upon you and Trillion working through some pretty unique circumstances together, so cooperation is of the utmost importance for success. If either of you calls it quits, then the journey is over. If that happens, I’ll make sure you get back to Baltimore before the next semester – tuition paid. Trillion will be in Wheeling at 8 a.m. on Monday.

One last thing. You’ll have to get to Wheeling on your own. That’s the deal, Grant. Take the leap!

Your benefactor, RNB

“Wheeling? Journey? Trillon? Benefactor?” Grant muttered out loud that whoever this “RNB” was, he was way off base. He may have known Grant’s father, but he didn’t know Grant. There was no way he was going to catch a bus on his own dime to some town in West Virginia which may as well have been the middle of nowhere, for a rendezvous with some lunatic GI Joe named Trillion to start some “journey.” Grant had better things to do than to waste his money on wild goose chases. Besides, he was almost out of beer and the USA network was running an NCIS marathon all week to get ready for Ziva’s last episode! No sir, Mr. RNB. Grant Connor wasn’t that desperate.

12:53 a.m. Monday, May 16, 2015 – Washington, D.C.

Morgan Richard Grant was almost startled by the young girl’s voice. “Do you want another cup of coffee, Sir?”

He stared at her longer than he should have, taking in her features and wondering why a pretty young girl like this would be serving coffee to various riff raff at one in the morning. Her nametag said “Maggie,” a name which just didn’t seem to fit her face, in his opinion. He realized he must have made her uncomfortable because she began to back away.

“Maggie, is it?” He cocked his head a bit to the side and cracked a subtle smile to soften the mood.

He watched the young waitress look down at her nametag and instinctively cock her head in a mirror image. She appeared to blush just a bit. “No, not really,” she said as she twisted the nametag so she could see it herself. “My name’s Jenni. I forgot my smock and my mom let me borrow hers. Coffee?” Jenni’s shoulders relaxed and she appeared more at ease after the short exchange.

“No thanks, Jenni.” He put his hand over the top of his coffee cup, planning the next few steps of their conversation. “My name’s Morgan Grant, but my friends call me Rich.” He was lying. Just a few days into retirement the Army Master Sergeant found it hard to turn off his military training.

“Well, Rich, since we’re friends now I can tell you not to drink too much of this stuff or you’ll never get any sleep on your way to Pittsburgh.” He noticed her smile as he allowed her to remove his hand from the mug and pour an additional half cup. “That’s on the house.”

“Rich” watched as the oils slowly seeped up and settled on top of his coffee. He quickly downed the piping hot brew and turned to walk outside, but his departure was interrupted by a fear-filled scream. When he looked, he saw a couple tussling, the woman trying to get away but the man holding her arm firmly with one hand as he raised the other – fist clenched. Morgan recognized the man’s anger on his face, but the rest of his mannerisms said that he wouldn’t strike the woman in public. No, he was angry, but he wasn’t going to repeat that lesson. Morgan looked over his shoulder at Jenni and saw the fear in her eyes. As he glanced around the room, it appeared everyone was frozen in time, afraid that the man might actually punch the poor girl but too scared themselves to move.

Ignoring that small voice in the back of his mind, Morgan walked swiftly to the couple and inserted himself into their argument and shot gunned several questions to get the man’s attention. “I’m not sure this is the right place or time for your conversation. Are the two of you together? Related?” He directed his question toward the man in an effort to appease his sense of empowerment but to also de-escalate the situation. When no answer came, Morgan asked again. “Sir, is this your wife?”

“No, man she ain’t nobody’s wife! This is my sister.” Morgan watched the man’s face contort into a sneer as he twisted the woman’s arm even more. “She got jealous I was out all night an’ told my girl I was cheating on her. How you like dat?”

Well, that’s not what I expected. Morgan was prepared for some sad drug story or hooker-john argument, but not some backwoods Kentucky hillbilly star-crossed jealousy thing. He put his unfair judgment aside and instead relied on his training. “Well, it sounds unpleasant, but there’s therapy that will help straighten that up. If you hit her here, now, in front of all these people though,” Morgan’s eyes scanned the room and led the man’s attention away from the sister, “no amount of therapy is going to keep you out of jail.”

“Jail!” the man screamed pulling his fist farther back, released his hold on her arm, and grabbed the woman by the throat. “You mean prison because I’m a gonna kill her with my own bare hands.”

The man didn’t know it yet, but Morgan noticed a subtle change in the man’s demeanor that, when combined with the threat, registered as intent in Morgan’s book. He swiftly removed the man’s hand from his sister’s throat, a move designed to attract all the man’s attention while Morgan slipped his right leg in behind the man’s own feet. His next move eliminated all hope the man would remain standing as the soldier switched his right hand to an overhand grip on the man’s forearm and placed his left palm firmly under the man’s chin. With a simple step of his left foot and a shove to the jaw, Morgan helped the man to the ground silently and then rolled him to his stomach, placing a knee on the back of his neck and collecting his hands in the small of his back.

Morgan looked up to see that during the altercation not a soul had moved – everyone’s view transfixed on the foray in the center of the Greyhound station. He calmly addressed the group. “This gentleman will await the arrival of the police,” he twisted the man’s hands up toward the center of his back, “calmly. Would someone care to invite them to the party, please?”

A few seconds later he saw Jenni reach for the phone, but she stopped when another bystander announced he just finished an emergency call. “D.C. Metro is on the way. Dispatch says a couple officers are shown on break nearby.”

“Thanks, Mr.?”

“Carson. If they ask, just tell them I already left. They’ll be here shortly.” The bystander whom Morgan had not noticed before walked out the door as two officers rushed in through a door on the other side of the terminal.

Morgan noted the man put up very little resistance. Not his first rodeo, he thought. As the police escorted the attacker out of the bus station and to a waiting police car, Morgan sighed as the sister approached. She introduced herself. It turns out her name was Mabel, although she pronounced it “May’Bel” and she was most definitely not the man’s sister. Mabel only took a minute to thank Morgan and relay that she was in fact a hooker, but not by choice. She had come to the D.C. area looking for her sister, Trina, and ended up working the streets to pay Trina’s drug debts. Like the sister angle, the story about the jealous girlfriend was a lie – “Julius” wasn’t the kind to be limited to just one girlfriend. Morgan stopped her before she dove further into the details.

“May’Bel, I can only hope you get your sister out of this place in one piece. As much as I would like to help more, sometimes we have to lie in the bed we make.” He was struck suddenly by the irony of his advice. For good measure, he added, “No pun intended.” He watched Maybel’s shoulders sag a little more, which he thought was impossible considering the girl’s already defeated posture. She just nodded and lowered her eyes to the floor before she turned and walked away.

Jenni handed Morgan a sandwich and another cup of coffee. “It’s on the house, ‘Sarge.’ We don’t get much excitement on the midnight shift but I’m glad you were here.”

“Sarge?” Morgan took the sandwich and thanked Jenni. “I’m not a cop.”

“No, you’re not a cop. That’s for sure.” Jenni laughed and smiled back. “They don’t teach those moves in cop school.” He realized Jenni’s tone was less formal, less sales pitch, and flirtier. Morgan was accustomed to men unconsciously softening their tone when talking with a woman, but he was taken aback by the young waitress. Most female soldiers fought to be equal in a man’s Army. Her soft words snapped him back to the present. “But I see all kinds of Army guys rolling through here. I figured the way you handled yourself you had to be enlisted or special forces or something like that.”

Another smile.

“Well, thanks again, Jenni.” His subconscious registered that he had softened his tone as well, which vexed him slightly. Keep that in check, Master Sergeant. That’ll get you into trouble, he thought. Morgan heeded Jenni’s earlier advice and set down the coffee, but he tasted the sandwich. As a matter of practice, he didn’t travel with much cash on hand and the ham and cheese would silence the now audible rumble from his stomach.

He turned to leave jamming his left hand into his jacket. Even his usually stoic look disappeared when he realized the whole reason for his being in the bus station in the first place was gone. He looked around the room at the faces – is one of them a pick pocket? Morgan didn’t see anything on the floor where the scuffle had taken place. That’s when he noticed the bent-over, elderly woman heading in his direction, her pace slow and painful behind the worn-out cane. She stopped at his feet and, without looking up, held up a letter, “Is this what you are looking for?” He could see she was trying to smile as she fought her hunched figure and turned her head sideways, looking toward him out of the corner of her eye. “It fell on the floor during your squabble with that terrible man.”

Morgan took the letter. He felt hard calluses as his hand brushed hers. “Thank you, um,” he didn’t quite know how to ask for the woman’s name.

“Maggie.”

Maggie. Morgan glanced up at Jenni. He could see the resemblance. “Well, thank you, Miss Maggie. This letter is very important to me. I would have hated to lose it.” He smiled, then gave Miss Maggie a gentle hug before turning and heading out to his bus. Next stop – Pittsburgh. He wondered if that short layover would be his last before going on to his final destination – or his starting point. He wasn’t sure yet. After sitting near the back of the bus, he opened the letter again.

Morgan Richard Grant,

I don’t know how you will receive this letter, having just been discharged from the Army. My prayer and hope is that you recognize this opportunity for what it is – the start of something.